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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28357203">to love the dark too dearly</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pajama_sama/pseuds/pajama_sama'>pajama_sama</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Baldur's Gate, baldur's gate 3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(for my girls), Action/Adventure, DRUIDS! GOBLINS! DROW! INABILITY TO DEAL WITH EMOTION!, Developing Friendships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Strangers to Lovers, because.....yeah it's a big part of both their bgs, mentions of abuse, part 2 forthcoming that's where the Juicy™ stuff happens alright-</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:42:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>11,423</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28357203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pajama_sama/pseuds/pajama_sama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>There are many sound reasons why Astarion shouldn't let himself get involved: for one, she has a horrid, meddling sister. </p><p>Two, they're likely never going to see each other again after this entire ordeal is over. And three, if he had a type, she would be so far removed from it that it would be laughable. </p><p>It should be noted that Astarion does not have a good track record with important decisions.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Female Charname (Baldur's Gate)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>44</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to love the dark too dearly</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this is almost forty pages of goobers being idiots and it's not even DONE YET which is proof that bg3 is currently eating my brain alive</p><p>couple of notes:</p><p>-her name is pronounced ai-mo-DE-nah<br/>-pt2 is where u'll be getting more backstory on her and the smut<br/>-i'm not completely adhering to all mechanical dnd rules because dude no<br/>-this ship could literally either end in total tragedy or like... nice bittersweet stuff. i'm prepared for anything, larian. my handbasket is ready.<br/>-k best wishes bye</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zen has always told her she’s too trusting. </p><p>“Don’t turn your back on a stranger,” is her favorite piece of advice. </p><p>True to form, she had not been wrong to repeat that continually.</p><p>For a cleric devoted to knowledge and healing, she can be rather mistrustful. And paranoid. <em> And </em> impressively pessimistic—but Zenith is very far away, right now, and who knows if she still lives? </p><p>The thought cuts at Imodena sharper than a razor. </p><p>Given that she is prepared to fall into a coma right here on the sandy ground, she’s amazed she detected the man creeping up on her. Maybe it was Zen’s doing, after years of cautioning, that tipped her off. She’d faced him in the nick of time, staving off what would have been a lunging attack with her poor perception to thank for it.</p><p>She appraises the elf before her. Though a striking sight, he looks like he hasn’t slept for the last century—there are some impressive, purpling circles under his eyes, and a heavy furrow between his fair brows. Hostility. Suspicion. This is a wary man. The line of his mouth, bent in an odious scowl, barely conceals his very pointed canines.</p><p>“I have no quarrel with you,” she says gently, moving her hands away from her staff. He grimaces, stance tightening with tension. “Please, put the knife away. We don’t need to fight.”</p><p>“Don’t we?” he insists, unmoved. He steadies the dagger he's pointing at her, bringing it further up. “I saw you on the ship, <em> free</em>, scuttling about.”</p><p>Her heart lurches. Another survivor? Then—</p><p>“You’re in league with them, aren’t you?” he says, the velvety drawl of his voice hardening into a snarl. “Those <em> tentacled</em>—”</p><p>He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. </p><p>Agony and heat explode in her skull, behind her right optic nerve, the feeling of telepathy gone wild; dimly, she is reminded of connecting the nerves of the helm on the nautiloid, of the magnetic lurch and suction when the two raw ends touched. Everything else burns away in the blaze of this terrible bond.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────• </p><p> </p><p>He’s in the middle of a perfectly good threat when his brain simply decides to heave itself upside down.</p><p>The ravaged coastline, the smoking ruins of the pod, the bushes, the shore, the drow woman—they're torn from his sight as the visions overtake him.</p><p>First, a beautiful glen washed in moonlight: cascades of water rush down a moss-covered edifice to the north. He can smell green and life, damp wood, the sweetness of some flower he can’t identify. The tranquility of the whole thing is positively alien, making his skin crawl. He—she—is holding something in her hands, something soft and leathery. A pouch of spellcasting components. Silver wire and copper pieces. Amber and glass. How he knows that, he cannot guess.</p><p>Second, a darkened alcove. A chapel? A library? No, both. Stained glass windows, blue and scarlet. Rows of shelves, stuffed with books and scrolls. Another woman, a tiefling, with meadowsweet-pink skin, and the great spiraling horns of a markhor goat. Her eyes glow like green fire. There’s a ring of magenta around the wide circle of her pupils—you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking closely, but he can tell—he’s been looking into these eyes for years. </p><p>Wait. No. </p><p>No, that’s not right. <em> He </em> hasn’t. These recollections belong to the drow, not him. She and he are not the same person. Different. He is Astarion. He… he will not bow to anyone or anything, not again. </p><p>Third, and last, most horrifying, most recent, a memory exposed like a flayed limb—the sensation of being bound, of the Weave remaining inert when it’s called upon. Suffocating. Fear. Fear for everyone, for the others, the feeling of the world spinning out from under a pair of shaking legs, being engulfed, choked, and stifled. A scream tearing through the silence. It’s the drow’s voice, jagged with terror. </p><p><em>Stop! No!</em> <em>Don’t touch them!</em></p><p>The empathy that surges through him turns him inside out. </p><p>He’s well-acquainted with fear, the feral frenzy of desperation, the bitter fang of sadism. He can even lay claim to tiny flashes of wild joy, here and there, felt largely at the expense of others—and that doesn’t trouble him. </p><p>Guilt is a useless burden he left behind long ago. It helps nothing and no one, especially not the individual feeling it. But the foreign memories do not care about where he comes from, what’s been done to him, or the untold damage dealt by Cazador’s schemes—they drown him in a tide of additional stimulus and information, remorse and uncertainty, a revolting mire of selfless compassion, worsened and compounded by the drow’s personal worries. Hours’ worth of thoughts stream into him in an unstoppable wave, one after the other: <em> where am I? Who is he? Zen, the ship, illithid. Ceremorphosis. Crashing. Nightmare. Hells. Dagger, dagger, dagger. Stranger. Danger! </em></p><p>That’s the note on which he’s carried back into the waking world, which swims into focus with worrying sluggishness.</p><p>He’s going to be ill.</p><p>The only comfort he can derive from this is that the drow looks about as well off as he feels. </p><p>Regardless, sick or not, she is no enemy, not at the present. She is a fellow survivor, though a bit touched in the head, if what he gleaned from his jaunt through her mind is true. </p><p>He gets a good eyeful of her as they stand there, recovering, regarding each other. He has time to take in her features, unlike before. </p><p>She's a slight thing, short, dressed in (formerly) white robes that have been blasted with ash and fire. Her left sleeve is missing, ripped at the shoulder, exposing a slim arm, and the hempen girdle about her little waist has frayed at the ends.</p><p>Oddly, there is no anger or reproach in her pretty face. </p><p>He has not had many dealings with drow—what he <em> does </em> remember tells him that they are a competent, prideful people, warlike and cunning, the sort of which should not be crossed at any cost. Baldur’s Gate does not boast a substantial population of them, if such a population exists in the first place, so this person is a mystery to him.</p><p>She watches him with an unsettling pair of wide, pale eyes, patient and open, inquisitive enough that he wishes he could somehow hide. Her hair, fine and silver-white, caught in a low-slung braid and tail, is almost like a cloud about her head—and her skin, in places where it has not been begrimed by the day’s trials, is the color of the pallid purple-grey lichen that grows on lightless cave walls. Like him, she doesn’t belong under the sun, yet here they stand.</p><p>What a strange creature.</p><p>He presses a hand to his temples, as though it’ll do anything to alleviate the echoing vestiges of pain throbbing in his head.</p><p>“Are you well?” she asks. The question nearly brings him right back to hurling the dagger at her—what does it <em> look </em> like? Does he <em> seem</em>, by any stretch of the imagination, <em> well? </em></p><p>“No,” is what he replies with instead, curtly. “What was that? What’s going on?”</p><p>He has a hunch. But he wants to hear it said aloud. </p><p>“It’s the mind flayer’s worm,” the drow informs him, cool as a cucumber. “It connected us.”</p><p>His dagger goes back to its sheath. That movement takes more out of him than it should.</p><p>“The worm, of course,” he murmurs. “That explains things. Somewhat.”</p><p>She sighs, wiping at smudges of dirt on her cheek. “I have my own hypotheses about the situation, several of them… though it could be the dehydration talking.”</p><p>Ugh. He’s thirsty, too, but not in the way she is. Mustn’t dwell on it.</p><p>He rallies himself with his winning smile. “They took you, too, then. And to think, I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”</p><p>She smiles back, a tilt of dusky lips. “Apology accepted,” she says, the tension draining from her. A breeze stirs her robes, making them flutter about her legs like moth wings. “I’m glad to see we’re all caught up.”</p><p>Is she at ease around him already? Stupid girl. No matter. He’ll play it to his advantage. </p><p>“Indeed we are,” he answers, smoothing his tone into a more welcoming tenor. He shifts on his feet, backing up, making himself smaller within the space of their conversation—safer. People respond to subliminal signals like that, whether they acknowledge it or not. There’s no reason to force someone who has no qualms talking to him. Not yet, anyhow. “Please, allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Astarion. I was in Baldur’s Gate when those beasts snatched me.”</p><p>“Well-met, Astarion,” she greets. She has an accent he cannot place—his name on her tongue sounds different from what he’s used to hearing. “I am Imodena.”</p><p>He gives her a short bow, proper and practiced, not missing the surprise that formality causes. “A pleasure.”</p><p>Astarion has no idea he will come to mean that in the times ahead.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•<br/><br/></p><p>She is disgustingly and pointlessly kind. </p><p>It takes a day for him to pick up on that, and the discovery comes with no small amount of dread. They meet a cleric that calls herself Shadowheart; she’s a dark-haired half-elf with a glare to rival Astarion’s. Imodena invites <em> her </em> along, too. And here he’d thought he was special.</p><p>That night, they make camp in a small clearing—well, it isn’t really a <em> camp</em>. It’s more of a circle of bedrolls around a firepit. He is numbly wondering what calamity will befall him next when Imodena reaches out for a lump of charcoal that is dangerously close to the still-living embers of the fire. Neither he nor Shadowheart say a word as she clenches the thing in her palm, turning it over in her hold experimentally. Her eyes are yellow in the firelight. </p><p>The moment passes. She drops the charcoal and leans back, wiping her hand on the thigh of her robe and leaving behind an admirable smear. </p><p>He has no idea what to make of her. Whether that is a good or bad thing—beneficial or disastrous—remains to be seen.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>Imodena finds a suitable perch leaned up against a log that isn’t too close or too far from the fire. </p><p>Shadowheart is busy being standoffish, knelt in prayer on her bedroll—which is more than fine, really; Imodena’s been waiting the entire day to dig into her journal, which, by some unholy miracle, survived the entire ordeal of the nautiloid, Avernus, and the fury and brimstone which came afterward.</p><p>She’s about to put the nub of her short pencil to paper when she hears it—Astarion clearing his throat. If she weren’t drow, she may not have even caught it.</p><p>Imodena looks up, finding his gaze on her. He’s paler in the glow of the fire than by daylight, which is quite a feat, but his profile is no less aristocratic: a straight nose set above a full mouth, a handsome, proportionate jaw, and a proud brow. He could pass for a statue if he stopped blinking—he breathes so softly she sometimes forgets he breathes at all. There’s no doubt he’s one of the loveliest people she’s ever seen, though there’s a manner about him that sets her nerves to jangling. </p><p>“Yes?” she says, setting the pencil down on her journal again. </p><p>“So,” he begins, “we’re resting here? …Turning in for the night?”</p><p>She casts a glance around—isn’t the answer obvious? </p><p>Could it be that he wants to make conversation? …Stilted, awkward, basic conversation? </p><p>“It appears we are,” Imodena tells him. “No beds or feather down, but exhaustion can make anything comfortable.”</p><p>His posture is surprisingly vulnerable. He must be truly out of his element to emote so evidently—she somehow guesses he’s the type that would rather die than show any kind of weakness, or what he perceives to be such. He props his chin up on a hand, turning his wine-red stare on her.</p><p>“I suppose. I’m not sure—<em>what </em>I expected, really. This is all a little new.” His lips press together. “The night usually means bustling streets. Busy taverns.”</p><p>“Frankly, I wouldn't worry. You seem the adaptable sort,” Imodena says, tilting her head at him. “The wilds are as noisy as any settlement, albeit in a different way. You’ll see.” She pauses, considering. “Now that you mention it—I don’t think I’ve slept inside the walls of a city for more than forty years.”  </p><p>He gives her a mildly horrified look, pupils shrinking in shock. “Curling up in the dirt and resting is, ah… a little novel,” he admits, voice pitching upward hilariously. She suspects that’s as far as he’ll go toward explaining his true feelings on the matter.</p><p>“We’ll need to be fresh for tomorrow,” she goes on, reaching for her pencil once more. “Try to relax, if you can. Your body will thank you.”</p><p>“I’m in no place to rest yet,” Astarion sighs, head lolling. He rolls his shoulders, baring some of the skin hidden by the collar of his ridiculous doublet. She catches a hint of a dark mark on his neck—the start of a scar? It’s hidden from view as fast as it appeared. “Today has been… a lot. I need some time to think things through. To process <em> this</em>.” The last word is punctuated with a disheartened, vague gesture in the general area of his right eye.</p><p>She nods. “Of course. Don’t fret about it—I doubt anyone will be letting their guard down tonight. There will always be someone on guard.”</p><p>He laughs disbelievingly. “Why, you sound like you’re implying I need protection.”</p><p>“Doesn’t everyone?” she asks, drawing her knees in tighter to her body. “No creature is above that sort of transaction to attain safety, I think. Even ancient horrors fear something. Death. Oblivion. Cockroaches.”</p><p>The humor fades from his face, transforming it into a solemn, motionless mask. For a moment, she’s convinced she’s mortally offended him—which, if she’s being honest, she thought would have happened minutes after they met. She has a particular talent for upsetting others effortlessly. Zenith is her designated rescuer in those situations—but she’s on her own here, adrift in the mire of social interactions without her infernal guiding star to help her get by.</p><p>But Astarion has no scathing rejoinder for her—surprisingly. He just stares, like he’s seeing her for the first time.</p><p>“You truly believe what you’re saying,” he remarks. She’ll take the confusion in his voice as a compliment. “You know many ancient horrors, then?”</p><p>It’s her turn to laugh. The sound makes him grin—it’s wild, and entirely teeth, but she doesn’t find it as unnerving as his polite, contained smile. It’s infinitely more genuine.</p><p>“Some,” she confesses. “You can’t go very far in the Underdark without stumbling over one.”</p><p>“How delightful.”</p><p>“It can be.”</p><p>There’s a question on the tip of his tongue. She can more or less see it fighting to escape—she also sees his expression shutter, closing off as surely as a moonflower shrinking from light.</p><p>“Well,” he says, getting to his feet. “In any case, goodnight. Sweet dreams.”</p><p>“Goodnight, Astarion.”</p><p>She looks on as he stalks away on long legs, and ponders what he could be hiding.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>The next morning, he contemplates the sunrise, arrested by the simple awe of being able to do so.</p><p>He’s still engrossed in the sight of it peeking through the branches of the trees above when movement out of the corner of his eye distracts him. </p><p>It’s the drow—robes miraculously spotless and repaired, he might add, and fairly aglow—making incomprehensible arcane gestures with her hands. She murmurs a word, flicks a wrist, and magic rises to her call. There’s a burst of emerald radiance, bright and venomous, and then a susurrating gust of wind that stirs the hair on his head. It smells like ozone and wet grass—a forest before a storm. </p><p>A raven, its feathers dark and iridescent as an oil-slick, now sits on Imodena’s outstretched arm, talons curled into her sleeve. It’s monstrous, about as big as a small hound—Astarion hasn’t ever seen another this size. It croons and clicks happily, combing its large beak through the strands of Imodena’s fringe. </p><p>“Hello, <em> abbil¹</em>,” she greets the bird, smoothing a hand down its back. “I missed you too.”</p><p>Shadowheart is staring at the animal with a naked and astonishingly innocent interest that borders on comical. </p><p>“This is Shadowheart,” Imodena explains, gesturing to the half-elf. “Shadowheart, this is Odin. An old friend of mine.”</p><p>The raven fluffs up proudly, chest puffing outward. </p><p>“Pleased to meet you…?” Shadowheart says.</p><p>“And that’s Astarion,” Imodena goes on, lifting her arm up in his direction next. </p><p>If she expects him to <em> greet </em> it, she has another thing coming.</p><p>The raven eyes him critically—there’s a keen intellect to it that is far beyond that of any ordinary animal. He nonetheless refuses to be cowed by a piddling familiar, and so he looks right back, drawing himself up further and straightening his shoulders.</p><p>It actually <em> scoffs </em> and turns away, busying itself with preening.</p><p>“Oh, pay him no heed,” Imodena says, glossing over the fact that he was just snubbed like a common harlot by <em> a bird. </em> “He can be a tad overprotective.”</p><p>Astarion smiles tightly. “Charming,” he sneers. </p><p>He’s going to make sure to hunt for poultry tonight.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>On the afternoon of that same day, the raven leads them straight into a fight in progress. </p><p>Astarion recognizes the tiefling on sight. She’s the one from Imodena’s memories, though bloodied and beaten, hiding behind the husk of a crashed pod and using a narrow scrap of oak like a targe. Goblins swarm around her, peppering the pod with their crude arrows, trying to overturn the structure providing her cover.</p><p>She shouts what must be an insult in Infernal before bringing her spiked mace down on the skull of a goblin, crushing it like a melon.</p><p>“Try me, you tiny fuckers!” she roars, fangs flashing white in her mouth. “I’ll send you back to—whatever the hell it is you worship now!”</p><p>Imodena is the first to take action—she races past Astarion in a whirl of magic, her silhouette blurring and dissolving as though it were made of sand. For a moment the spectacle of it distracts him: but then she is solid again, robes flowing about her, and her voice thrums with power. She raises a hand, sparks racing and crackling along her sleeve and fingers.</p><p>Every goblin within ten paces of her is thrown back, propelled by a mighty wave of thunder and purple electricity.</p><p>The tiefling pops her head around a jutting corner of shattered glass. “Imo? Imo! It’s you!”</p><p>A swirling ball of fire coalesces in Imodena’s open palm, limning her in gold and yellow. “Stay there, Zen, we’re coming!”</p><p>“We are?” Astarion asks, but no one is listening—as usual.</p><p>Shadowheart is charging into the fray, shield up and at the ready.</p><p>Oh, well. At least he’ll get to kill <em> something</em>.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>The battle is short, brutal, and decisive.</p><p>A ragtag group of goblins is no match for four martially-inclined, angry adventurers. The tiefling and Shadowheart fight similarly—economic, lethal movements, punctuated by bashes of the shield and mace. </p><p>Imodena, though, is a different matter. She’s not as flashy as some other wizards he’s encountered, but there’s a liquid grace to her that makes witnessing her fight a worthwhile experience. One moment she’s lobbing magical missiles with chilling precision, gliding through storms of lightning the next. If his heart still worked, perhaps it would have skipped a beat or two. </p><p>She can be magnificently lethal. He’s more accustomed to that than the soft touch she displays most of the time—drawn to it. With regret, he sees that resolve fade from her face as she passes the goblin corpses, jogging toward the tiefling before catching the other woman in an embrace.</p><p>“I knew you were alive, <em> I knew it</em>,” she’s saying, her voice thick with tears. “When I woke up and you were gone, I—”</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay. We made it. We’re okay, for now. Yeah? And you’ve brought company.”</p><p>Imodena pulls away, wiping at her face. On her skin, a blush is lilac. Interesting. “Oh—yes! Um. Astarion, Shadowheart, meet Zenith. My sister.”</p><p>Astarion glances between them, an eyebrow raised. “Goodness. The family resemblance is unmistakable.”</p><p>The tiefling gives him a venomous look, her eyes fairly burning with dislike.</p><p>“Zenith, these are other survivors. From the ship,” Imodena clarifies, as though mind flayer ships dashing nose-first into the Material Plane is as commonplace as spring showers. “They’re infected too.”</p><p>She certainly doesn’t mince words, does she?</p><p>“Praise Oghma. We can start a club,” Zenith says dryly. “There’s nothing around here for miles except a camp—a grove of druids—<em> that </em> way.” She points a clawed finger to the north. “The goblins are planning on storming it. I heard them talking. Before they tried killing me, anyway.”</p><p>“A camp?” Shadowheart exclaims. “If that’s true, they must have a healer.”</p><p>Imodena nods, brushing out her sleeves distractedly. “A healer is our top priority. I have doubts that anything beyond githyanki expertise will solve this particular issue, given their longstanding history with the illithids, but it’s worth—”</p><p>“Imo, slow,” Zenith interrupts, putting a hand to Imodena’s shoulder. She laughs. “Good to know the crash didn’t dilute your ceaseless optimism, eh?”</p><p>Astarion is going to pretend like he didn’t hear what she said in the first place. Shadowheart, it seems, is doing much of the same.</p><p>Above them, the circling raven screeches.</p><p>It’s going to be a long day.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>The grove is about as dreadful as he figured it would be. </p><p>No, he rescinds that statement. It’s worse than dreadful—their macabre troupe of tadpole-carriers has grown by <em> three</em>: the recent additions include a chatty, meddling wizard; an upstanding swashbuckler, complete with heroically-placed scars; and an intransigent gith with a greatsword twice as long as Astarion is tall.</p><p>Imodena is comfortable in the grove—he can tell as much. She doesn’t give the recoiling druids a backward glance. She saved them and their wretched viney garden, and all they can do is scurry around her like scared mice. It irritates him more than he thought it would. </p><p>After a protracted conversation with several scruffy-looking treehuggers and one particularly annoying wood elf, they are allowed free rein of the camp. There’s a healer here, apparently, but not someone Imodena has high hopes for. She proposes a momentary rest, which is unanimously agreed to—that is, if you exclude the gith. Which Astarion is.  </p><p>They wander for a while before finding a collection of rocks down by the lakeshore; it lies due east of the settlement—it’s fairly isolated, not counting the massive bear splashing in the shallows a hundred or so yards away. The noise makes his skin crawl, but at least it’s not a river. Running water still burns like nothing else—he’d discovered that on the first night, after perhaps overestimating the efficacy of the resistances the worm’s given him. He won’t be flywater fishing any time soon, that’s for certain.</p><p>“You’re not considering <em> helping </em> them, are you?” Astarion asks as Imodena stretches out on a flat boulder across him. </p><p>She gives him that curious look—the one he’s coming to understand means <em> I’m hearing what you’re saying, but I shan’t listen</em>. </p><p>“Not right now, at least,” she concedes. “Finding the crèche is the priority.”</p><p>That draws an affirming grunt from the gith, which he fancies is a step up from the arrogant silence she’s been affecting since they decided to take a breather. He’s willing to bet every member of her species is as averse as she is to pausing from breaking her back at <em> every waking moment. </em> </p><p>“That’s not a no,” Astarion says.</p><p>“It is not,” Imodena says. She stretches again, and this time the fabric of her robes rides up to uncover a pair of remarkably shapely legs. He does love a good leg. “If the lead on the crèche doesn’t pan out, we should have a backup in place. The First Druid might be an acceptable option.”</p><p>Lae’zel scoffs audibly. “The <em> zaith’isk </em>alone will provide the cure you seek. Anything else is folly at best, and delusion at worst. Every minute we lose to pointless idling is another minute the parasite feeds and grows. You are killing us.”</p><p>Imodena’s white eyelashes hardly bat at that declaration. “Killing us very slowly, considering our symptoms seem to be arrested. We should be drooling, bleeding, oozing messes by now.”</p><p>“Delicious imagery, thank you,” Zenith says, her voice muffled against her arms. She’s laid out like a dead fish next to Imodena, face-down. </p><p>“She’s not wrong,” Gale pipes up. “We’re approaching our second night, and no one’s so much as broken a fever.”</p><p>Astarion rolls his eyes. “You make that sound like a <em> bad </em> thing.”</p><p>“It could be, potentially,” Imodena muses. “We don’t exactly have a huge control group to refer to. What we <em> do </em>know is that ceremorphosis is a routinely straightforward process. Unpleasant, but straightforward. This is not typical of it.”</p><p>Wyll laughs at that, very loudly. Astarion winces. “‘Unpleasant,’ she says,” he wheezes. “Like it’s a kick in the bum.”</p><p>“No kick I’ve ever taken has had tentacles,” Shadowheart says sourly.</p><p>“Right again, my lady,” Gale goes on, like no one else spoke. He was the only person other than Lae’zel who declined to take a seat, which means he’s been pacing a groove into the ground for the last five minutes. “We should take advantage of the lapse in symptoms, certainly—though we should also <em> not </em> forget this is merely a pause, not a ceasefire. These tadpoles will continue to be an unfortunate reality for us, regardless of dormancy.”</p><p>“Ergo,” Imodena says, pushing her hair over one shoulder, “multiple options. We will investigate every avenue of <em> possible </em> worm removal available to us, no matter how silly or promising. We don’t have the luxury of refusing.”</p><p>Lae’zel makes another one of her displeased noises, turning away from the group with a derisive cross of the arms. “<em>Tchk. </em>You waste your time. And mine.”</p><p>Imodena just smiles, the very image of beatificism. “Wizards are exceedingly good at that, you’ll find.”</p><p>“Hey!” Gale exclaims. “And here I was, prepared to discuss my theories with you tonight.”</p><p>“Oh, please. Seeing as there’s no one else here equipped or willing to put up with you,” Zenith grumbles at him, “you’ll go crawling to her anyway.”</p><p>Gale narrows his eyes at the tiefling, stopping on spot. “Well, now. That’s not very nice.”</p><p>“It isn’t,” Imoedena says. She kicks at Zenith’s thigh with a foot. “Zen, apologize.”</p><p>“No. Not until he apologizes for talking to you that way, for calling you ‘<em>a mere breeze</em>,’” Zenith fires back, imitating the wiggle Gale sometimes does with his fingers. She pushes herself up on her arms, staring right back at the wizard with single-minded disapproval. </p><p>Gale is perplexed. “That bothered you?”</p><p>“It was dismissive and condescending,” Zenith snaps. “You don’t know Imo. If you ever get to, you’ll see how far down your gangling esophagus you stuck that ridiculous, booted foot of yours.”</p><p>Astarion perks considerably at the aggression in her voice. “Oh, are you going to fight? Please—it’s been so long since I’ve had some decent entertainment.”</p><p>“<em>No </em> one is going to be fighting,” Imodena cuts in. “Isn’t that correct?”</p><p>Zenith’s lips skin back in a growl. “It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”</p><p>“Right, then,” Gale says. Clears his throat. Rubs at his beard. “Good talk.”</p><p>Astarion does not concur.</p><p>There was, after all, no blood.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>“No, but really. Why the tieflings?”</p><p>It takes her a couple of seconds to grasp Astarion has said anything in the first place. </p><p>She lifts her eyes from her journal to find him sitting across from her, again, and looking at her, very intent. Also again. She hopes these intrusions on the time she spends with her spellbook aren’t part of a forming pattern. The mornings and afternoons are busy enough as it is—evenings in camp are the sole chance she has to review what she’s learned in a day, to put her thoughts to paper and get them out of her head. </p><p>For a good, long moment, she seriously considers acting like she heard nothing.</p><p>But because curiosity is one of her vices, she nestles her pencil in the wedge between pages and puts a hand under her chin.</p><p>“Why not?” she says, matching his unblinking stare. </p><p>“I could think of a good few reasons,” he returns. “What’s the difference, really? Goblins, tieflings… kill some here, save some there. It won’t alter anything.”</p><p>“Ah, a cynic, then?”</p><p>“Never, my dear. Just practical.”</p><p>She can’t hold in her mirth at that. “I’m sorry—I—you can be, yes, but it’s not the first word that springs to mind when I think of you.”</p><p>“If I didn’t like you so much, I would be <em> very </em> offended,” he says, but his eyes are glittering with amusement. </p><p>“You <em> like </em> me? Remind me to avoid getting on your bad side.”</p><p>Now that same amusement has a decidedly predatory edge to it. “Was liking you ever in question? I’m not easily impressed by people, but you’re stronger than I gave you credit for.”</p><p>Mystra’s great bouncing bosom—that is unmistakably, objectively, a compliment. It feels nice to hear, even if she’s not sure he’s being wholly forthright.</p><p>She shrugs at him. “I’m just trying to survive. Like you.”</p><p>“Yes, we’re more similar than I thought…” He smirks at her. “My original question, however, goes unanswered.”</p><p>Imodena must grant him that he is persistent. “I don’t think I could explain it in a way that satisfies you,” she admits. “Should I appeal to that practicality of yours? The tieflings are less destructive to the ecosystem around them. They don’t burn, pillage, or loot—like the horde—which means there’s more left for us to use, and less bushfires to navigate. They are willing to supply us with what information they have, because we’ve proven ourselves to them. There’s also a matter of numbers. Throwing our lot in with the goblins would mean turning every faction in this woodland against us. My spellbook is not quite ready for that sort of exertion.”</p><p>“My,” Astarion drawls, “so clinical. And sentimentality has no part in these judgments of yours, I take it?”</p><p>“No, it does. Of course it does.” She closes her journal, and cants her head back, so she can look at the stars above them. “I can’t downright divorce my heart from my morals. Maybe I would be more efficient if I could. Or maybe I would be like a modron. Empty. Neutral. The tieflings do not offend my sense of order or justice. I have such a sense because I’m flawed and mortal.”</p><p>“I must say, it’s fascinating you’re aware of it at all,” he says, drumming slender fingers against his knee. “No rousing speeches about the greater good, then? No posturing about ethics? No finger-wagging, castigating, or tongue-lashing?”</p><p>“If I thought it would change anything, I might have given it a try by this point,” she reminds him. “Who is to say what the greater good is? Wyll, Gale, and Zen agree with me. Shadowheart does, too, though she doesn’t know it yet. Lae’zel will always adhere to her code. And you—you’re you. You don’t put much stock in altruism.”</p><p>He laughs—it’s a coil of silken sound, like auditory syrup. “Guilty as charged, sweet one. A mere tally of lives won’t change much, in the end.”</p><p>“That may be true, on some level,” she allows. “We might not ever totally comprehend what our actions have affected, but that can apply to everything, technically. Should we stop eating and breathing, too, because it won’t keep death at bay forever?”</p><p>“Breathing and <em> eating </em> bring me immediate—and palpable—pleasure,” he says, voice practically a purr. “Rescuing a sniveling tiefling toddler leaves me utterly cold. The two can’t be equated.”</p><p>“But don’t you see? There you have it. They are inequitable by <em> your </em> standards.” She gestures to their surroundings, the people scattered around the campfire. “Each of us is an individual. We judge and learn and live in varied ways. I can’t expect what I value to make you happy—or to appeal to you at all.”</p><p>His expression has changed once more. She can’t put a name to what she sees on his face. </p><p>“Is every wizard this insufferably philosophical?”</p><p>“Ask Gale and find out.”</p><p>“I’ll pass, thank you—why, are you trying to get rid of me already? I’m hurt.”</p><p>She raises an eyebrow. “You possess a veritable wealth of self-determination. I don’t think I could get rid of you unless it was your aim in the first place.”</p><p>“Oh? You know, if you want to spend time with me, you only have to say so.”</p><p>Imodena chuckles. “Duly noted.”</p><p>Silence envelops them for a while; she’s content to sit there with her back to the log, joining him in his impromptu bout of astronomy. </p><p>The Cold Crown is especially bright tonight, its cardinal star burning with white fire, infinitely enchanting; with Lady Mystra’s guidance, one cannot be truly lost. She will always be there, in the dark, the jewels of her constellation marking true north for any soul wise enough to seek her counsel.</p><p>“It’s quite a sight,” says a quiet voice right by her ear. Her heart jumps. “The stars, I mean. I could take or leave your chin.”</p><p>She lets out an actual snort at that—the frequency with which he can coax such reactions out of her is concerning, but not unwelcome. </p><p>“They are very beautiful tonight,” she affirms. “They still amaze me like they did a century ago.”</p><p>“Right,” he murmurs. “No sky underground.”</p><p>She shakes her head. “It’s a surreal realm, my birthplace—no flowers grow in the Underdark, either, and yet I miss it all the same.”</p><p>“The city isn’t much better,” Astarion says. “I can see the stars from Baldur’s Gate, of course, but not with such clarity. It got me thinking.”</p><p>This is the most reflective she’s heard him during their short acquaintance. He is scrupulously private, a master of deflection—most of the time, anyway. Could she be intruding? The thought makes unease prickle in her chest.</p><p>“Am I disturbing you? I could go…”</p><p>“No, no.” He glances at her. His pupils are blown so wide they virtually drown out the red of his irises. “I was reflecting on what tomorrow might bring, when we arrive at this… gith crèche. Will we find out how to bring the worm under control? Will this—little adventure of ours be over?”</p><p>She could be deluding herself—but it sounds as though he’s expectant. Expectant of what, exactly? Elation blooms inside her, unfurling slowly. Honesty is the best policy. </p><p>“That’s life, isn’t it?” she says softly. “Once we solve this issue, everyone here will be going their own ways.”</p><p>And like on the first night they spoke, every visible trace of manufactured emotion on him fades, until what she assumes is the real Astarion is left bare to her. Without the veneer of sarcasm and derision, his features are astoundingly youthful.</p><p>“A pity,” he says. His eyes flicker down, over her mouth, her neck, and then back up. She feels pinned to the log by his attentions, a butterfly in a glass casing with her wings spread in eternal, motionless flight. “A great pity.” </p><p>Is she hallucinating, or is he leaning in?</p><p>“You’re quite the ally, after all,” Astarion continues. “Traversing Avernus. Surviving the crash. Surviving everything that’s followed…”</p><p>He doesn’t emanate any body heat whatsoever. Something about that is significant, very significant, but the scrambled puddle of her brain can’t remember what. If he weren’t so distractingly near, she’d have no problem discerning <em> what </em> it means. He smells fresh—unbelievably enough—and sharp, metallic, like wine, or a copper coin left in the rain. </p><p>“Are you all right?” she blurts, because that is what makes most sense to the pitiful remnants of her cognitive functions. </p><p>He blinks. “Hm?”</p><p>Her inquiry didn’t register immediately, she can tell. When it does sink in, however, it happens altogether. His eyes widen and he snaps to attention, shoulders straightening, retreating from her.</p><p>“Oh,” he says, looking almost startled. “I was leagues away.” He begins to stand, brushing off his trousers and sleeves. “I just need to… get some air. Clear my head. I’ll see you later, I’m sure. Sleep tight.”</p><p>No sooner than she’s uttered a “goodnight” back at that rapid-fire farewell, he’s disappeared into the gloom of the forest beyond the camp’s boundaries. </p><p>Her pulse is thudding with a vigor reserved for someone in the direct path of stampeding minotaurs. She’s stunned that it hasn’t woken anybody up, because it surely is at <em> least </em> as loud as a war drum. She feels—giddy, like she’s stumbled on a wealth of undiscovered enchanting components, like she could walk on water without the help of her magic.  </p><p>Imodena clutches her journal to her chest.</p><p>This is not good. This so, <em> so </em> not good.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>Astarion is parched. </p><p>Well—no, not <em> totally</em>, given that he drained a boar at the prime of its life last night—but it <em> feels </em> that way. Everything is too bright, too loud, too <em> much</em>. The background ostinato of Gale and Zenith almost-but-not-quite bickering <em> all the bloody time </em> is not helping. </p><p>The tiefling acts like a possessive father when it comes to Imodena, and she has plainly identified Gale as her primary target—which is fortuitous, considering that if she used her worm to peek into Astarion’s brain and fell afoul of the fantasies he’s been having about her precious sister, she’d undoubtedly ram that mace of hers somewhere it doesn’t belong. He’s enjoying his newfound freedom and health, thanks very much, and he’s not about to jeopardize either by being too obvious.</p><p>Which is why when it becomes clear that Imodena isn’t rejoining their merry gathering by the dead campfire, he gives it a few more minutes before slipping away himself. </p><p>She’s sitting on a piece of dried-out driftwood by the lake, robes bunched up around her thighs, feet drifting through the water. For a woman with a carnivorous tadpole squirreled away in her cranium, she seems marvelously at peace; the sunlight in her hair is cold fire, and he sees that unbound, the waves of it reach the middle of her back. </p><p>“Come sit,” she says as soon as he gets within twenty paces of her. “The water’s lovely.”</p><p>He may not be able to get used to her uncanny sense of hearing—he’s accustomed to being the most perceptive person in any given situation, but it seems that drow ears can give those of a vampire spawn a run for their money. </p><p>“I most graciously accept,” Astarion says, lowering himself down beside her. “The shoes, I’m afraid, are staying on.”</p><p>She giggles—it’s decently girlish, somewhat shy, and thoroughly endearing. It could have earned her a certain magistrate’s attention, once upon a time, regardless of how dedicated he’d been to hedonism and luxury. He can’t remember much of anything of his life before, not fully, but he likes to think that would be true. And that’s his monthly quota for wholesome thoughts fulfilled. </p><p>“It’s tranquil here… you could almost forget about the goblins, and the illithids, and the… everything,” Imodena murmurs with a sigh. </p><p>He assesses the scene before him: the placid lake with bright reflections glimmering on its surface, the trees on the other side of the shore, and the distant splashing of the depressed bear, who is still engaged in mindlessly wading through the shallows.</p><p>Astarion purses his lips. “Mm, no. Not really.”</p><p>That gets another laugh out of her—a burst of longing goes through him, because she sounds alive and vibrant and delectable, and for a second all he can imagine is what would happen if he took her in his arms and sunk his fangs into the artery pulsing beside her windpipe. Who or what would stop him? By the time any of the others ever thought something was amiss, it’d be too late—and… and, he doesn’t want to hurt her. But he <em> does</em>—doesn’t. Does he? </p><p>He can’t tell anymore. </p><p>The desire for blood is like every existent hunger rolled into a single, potent curse. He hates that he has no idea what he would be without it. Hates it, and fears it.</p><p>“As I said yesterday,” Imodena says with a smile, “each of us are individuals.”</p><p>“Quite,” he replies, ignoring the unremitting aching of his teeth. “What have you got there?”</p><p>It’s more than a convenient new subject to focus on—she <em> does </em> have an object clasped between her palms. </p><p>She lifts her hands for his perusal, and he sees it’s a pair of tinted spectacles, rectangular and thin-framed, done in what appears to be a sort of silver wire. The lenses themselves are made of dark purple glass.</p><p>“They’re mine,” she explains, straightening them out. “Zenith found them on the nautiloid. That’s why she thought I had… anyway, I’d believed them lost forever.”</p><p>“Fetching. Are they enchanted to explode, or something equally exciting?”</p><p>“Ha! No, they’re frightfully mundane. Look. See?”</p><p>She slips them on—they sit almost flush with her face. He finds he dislikes them; the glass is so opaque that he can’t make out the slightest detail of her eyes. They are her most honest feature, colorless and white like a fogged crystal except for the ebony pinpoint of her pupils in the center—at first they were off-putting. Lately, they’ve become familiar.</p><p>“Before my wriggly stowaway was so rudely foisted upon me, direct sunlight was a hazard,” she says, touching the frames gingerly. “Drow are not meant to be aboveground. In the early days, I did very poorly during the daytime unless I was wearing protection. There was a price to pay for leaving the Underdark, you see. Migraines. Ocular distortions. Retinal injury. Eventual blindness had been a given, too. These were made for me so I could avoid that. And now…”</p><p>“You don’t need them,” he finishes in wonder. “At <em> all</em>?”</p><p>“Not one bit,” she confirms. “I got used to the sunlight with exposure, eventually, but I still had bad days. Headaches. I’ve been wearing them as needed for decades—but along comes the tadpole, makes them obsolete for a while, and it suddenly feels strange to put them on again.”</p><p>He has to bite his tongue to stop himself from admitting he’s been feeling that selfsame amazement at being functional during the day—nobody in camp has any idea they’ve been bedding down with a vampire spawn in their midst each night, and he intends to keep it that way. He can’t ruin this arrangement by blabbing his deepest secrets like a loose-lipped boy; he’s better than that, stronger. And he likes the way she looks at him—that she treats him no different than the others, even if that <em> also </em> rankles him, sometimes. </p><p>If she knew, that would change.</p><p>“I would be lying if I said I wasn’t enjoying this,” she says, pulling the spectacles off again. She lets them fall to her lap, keeping her attention on the horizon, which is broken up by the jagged lines of the forest rising above it. “All these colors and textures… it’s like a dream.”</p><p>She sounds a step away from leaping into the lake in celebration. He can’t remember the last time he was so purely grateful for anything—not until he woke up in that destroyed pod, alone, bathed in dawn. </p><p>Come to think of it, that may be what he finds tempting about her: she appears to feel things cleanly and directly, with no pretense involved. She is transparent in intent and motives, though he can’t claim to understand those more deeply than a cursory acknowledgement—the very concept of kindness with no catch is so profoundly and cosmically <em> stupid </em> that he doesn’t even bother to pretend it exists beyond theory and lies. But Imodena operates under the assumption that it is reality—and a given.</p><p>She seems to, anyway. </p><p>If it’s a front, it’s a damn good one—she hasn’t broken character or demanded recompense, not once. She has her own views, regardless of how bizarrely tenderhearted they may be at their foundations, but she doesn’t push them on others; and they don’t give when she’s pushed back, either. Shadowheart’s tests and Lae’zel’s threats do not faze her. She doesn’t argue or snipe or rise to conversational bait. She <em> respects </em> him. She is steady as rock, mutable as water. A whole person. No conspicuous broken pieces or shattered psyche. It’s relieving and infuriating. </p><p>Where has she been? Where has this world been hiding her, if she’s the real thing?</p><p>A foolish question. He’s been down this path before. It never ends well.</p><p>In his experience, the grace period lasts three months, give or take. Even the most accomplished liars—the ones that believe their own lies, that forget they are lying—falter at that milestone, when the novelty has worn off and they become restless, ready to chase another fantasy. </p><p>None of them are unique. </p><p>Cazador himself is a slave to that cycle, too: to that awful, yawning pit of boredom that has inspired some of his most heinous conquests; he’s always hungry for more—for a new quarry to reenact old horrors upon. There’s a shadow of him in every ambitious merchant, every self-congratulatory socialite, every malcontent miller, every noble, every beggar. Astarion sees him everywhere.  </p><p>He hopes the time to leave arrives before that shadow dogging him engulfs her, as well. Before this is ruined for him.</p><p>Astarion is happy to admit she’s beautiful, in a way he didn’t expect himself to be able to appreciate—that she’s perplexing, and that she has the potential to be an exceptionally occupying diversion—but nothing else. </p><p>There <em> can’t </em> be anything more. He is not capable of it. She must know that, but she hasn’t turned him away yet. If that’s her misguided principle of charity at play, he’ll accept it. He has precious few pleasant memories as it is—he won’t ignore the chance to add to them, however questionably he came by it.</p><p>“Everyone takes what they have for granted,” Astarion says at last. “They yearn for what they’ve lost once it’s well and gone, not before.”</p><p>Imodena doesn’t reply right away. Instead she shuts her eyes and tilts her head back, letting the sun touch her face. He wants to touch her, too.</p><p>“You’re right, my friend,” she says, stirring the water with her legs. “That’s why I’ll always cherish these moments—I’ve had the opportunity to bask in the light, however brief. I cannot and will not regret that. Not ever.”</p><p>Something in the tone of her voice makes his throat close up. He stops looking at her.</p><p>If only he were as magnanimous, and she weren’t as shortsighted. </p><p>Yes… if only.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>Imodena has terrifically skewed priorities. It is currently showing. A lot.</p><p>By now he’s witnessed her turn down rewards both material and monetary more than once—a stupid, <em> stupid </em> decision, if you ask him—and he while he can’t puzzle out the why, he won’t waste time mulling over it. </p><p>She has no compunctions about going out of her way to help whatever flavor-of-the-day, stuttering halfwit has crossed her path. That being said, she <em> also </em> has no compunctions about refusing people outright, either. He’s found her surprisingly resistant to suggestion and leading questions—he suspects Shadowheart has made the same discovery. </p><p>“Let’s go around,” Shadowheart is saying. “I don’t feel like wrestling a bear.”</p><p>“There’s no wrestling in your future, I promise,” Imodena answers, ascending the grassy stairs.</p><p>A gigantic black bear is sleeping right in the middle of the wooden landing for the grove’s old lift. Its snores rattle like an avalanche, gurgling deep in its broad chest. The front paws on this thing alone would dwarf Astarion’s head, curls and all. And Imodena is approaching the dozing behemoth those paws are attached to with no hesitation. </p><p>She bends down, tucking some of her hair behind a pointed ear. </p><p>“Excuse me,” she says very softly. A leathern nose twitches in reaction to her voice. “I’m sorry for bothering you, Miss Tuffet—you look so comfortable. But my friends and I need to use the lift. Do you think you could move a bit?”</p><p>A moment passes, punctuated by another tremendous, prolonged snore.</p><p>“My dear, it’s a <em> bear,</em>” Astarion murmurs. “There’s no point in speaking to it.”</p><p>As soon as the last word has left his mouth, the beast begins to stir.</p><p>That hulking mountain of fur stands, eyes still shut, takes two enormous steps to the right, and then, with a resounding thump that makes the entire platform vibrate, lies down again. The dust displaced by its weight begins to settle, motes of it shimmering in the midday sun.</p><p>“Thank you,” Imodena says to the bear’s back, before reaching for the lever. </p><p>
  <em> Clang. Crack. </em>
</p><p>She turns around to face them as the lift creaks its way down to their level, raising an eyebrow when she sees them staring.</p><p>“What?” she says. “What is it?”</p><p>Shadowheart makes a face. “‘Miss Tuffet?’”</p><p>“That’s her name,” Imodena says, serious as ever. “I asked around.”</p><p>“Of course you did.”</p><p>“Goodness, Shadowheart, be careful. Wouldn’t want you falling over yourself in praise of me. Up we go, on the lift. We have a patrol to track. Lae’zel is likely getting impatient.”</p><p>Shadowheart sighs gustily but moves anyway.</p><p>“Your gith friend is permanently impatient,” Astarion quips, giving the bear a wide, wide berth as he boards the lift alongside Imodena and Shadowheart.</p><p>“I doubt she’s my friend, Astarion,” Imodena says. She cranks the lever with a vengeance, and the mechanism begins to carry them up. “She’s more likely to knife me than you are, and you scarcely tolerate me.”</p><p>He surprises himself by not having to feign the affront in his response—it’s troublingly authentic.</p><p>“Lies and slander,” he protests. “You’re quite bearable.”</p><p>Imodena smiles slyly at him. “<em>Bear</em>able, you say?”</p><p>“Oh, Lady of Sorrows guide us,” Shadowheart groans. “Puns are the lowest form of humor.”</p><p>Imodena looks so pleased with herself that he could almost forgive the awful play on words. Almost.</p><p>“I’m fairly certain that’s sarcasm,” Imodena says, her grin as wide as the Chionthar. Huh—he’d not noticed before, but her eyeteeth are rather sharp. Drow must be healthily carnivorous, then. </p><p>“No,” Shadowheart grits out. “It’s <em>de</em><em>finitely </em>puns.”</p><p>Imodena just laughs. </p><p>Halfway up to the top of the ravine, the bear slumbering below looks about as big as a stuffed toy. He keeps repeating what she did in his head, picking apart the actions one by one, caught up in remembering the silhouette of her as she moved, the lack of fear. </p><p>She never really does what he expects her to.</p><p>He doesn’t dislike it. Not as much as he should.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>The next stick she picks up is dry and brittle, and about the length of her arm. </p><p>“You are splendid,” Imodena says to it, holding it up for inspection. “You will serve amazingly as kindling, sir.”</p><p>“Imo?”</p><p>“Zen, look. Perfect kindling, right?”</p><p>Her sister gives the stick a passing glance, nodding absentmindedly. Zenith’s arms are bristling with leaves and sticks—more fuel to start tonight’s fire with. </p><p>“Walk with me,” Zenith says. “There’s an old birch further out, dead. We’ll probably find more there.”</p><p>Imodena follows her through the brush, foliage crunching underfoot; the sky is going from blue to indigo as the sunset progresses, the shift in light turning the forest around them into a collection of golden and emerald shadows. The birch is where Zenith said it would be, sad and wilted, its white bark peeling in paper-thin strips. It’s an oddly sobering sight, there among the towering pines and hodgepodge of loam and earth.</p><p>“Is this where you tell me what’s wrong?” Imodena asks, and Zen sighs, her shoulders sagging. </p><p>“I’ve been bothered by this for days,” Zen admits. “It’s Astarion. He’s hiding something, I’m sure of it.”</p><p>Imodena chuckles. “<em>All of them </em> are hiding something. Have you looked at our merry band of companions? We’re like a bard’s fever-dream come true.”</p><p>“Yes, we’re a regular circus,” Zenith says flatly. “But none of the others stare at you like they want to <em> eat </em> you.”</p><p>“I really doubt he feels that way.”</p><p>Zen’s spaded tail flicks back and forth, lashing at her calf. “Oh, please. You’re about as conscious of your own sex appeal as a dead fish. You’ve been dumped for spending too much quality time with your books more than once before, and by finer men and women than I’ve ever been with, if I may remind you—<em>I’m </em> supposed to be the stuffy scholar, Imo. Cleric of Oghma, right here.” She tugs at her necklace, a silver scroll on a long chain. “I even carry the symbol!”</p><p>“My numerous and spectacular romantic failings aside,” Imodena says, tearing some of the bark nearest to her, “is there anything specific you’ve noticed? I’m curious.”</p><p>“You’re <em> always </em>curious,” Zenith complains, though there’s fondness in it. “I know you’re suspicious. You saw the boar this morning. That thing was built like a brickhouse—yet there were no defensive wounds, no signs of a struggle. And no blood. Not a drop. It was practically a raisin.”</p><p>“He was somewhat jumpy about the boar, yes.” Imodena gives a half-shrug, considering. “He mentioned vampires without prompting, too.”</p><p>“He just didn’t want you to <em> worry</em>,” Zenith says, trying to affect Astarion’s honey-drizzle, singsong rhythm of speech. “He’ll <em> keep watch tonight</em>. Well, I will, too. He’s not as good a liar as he thinks he is.”</p><p>“Don’t go making any stakes just yet. He may open up further of his own volition.”</p><p>Zenith grimaces. “So long as he does it from a distance. The tadpole’s gone to his head—figuratively speaking, of course. We have the literal part covered, unfortunately.”</p><p>Imodena abandons her post at the birch to come close and rest her free hand on Zenith’s arm. Her sister’s dark expression does not shift much, but those glowing eyes do lower, and Zenith’s brow creases in worry. </p><p>“You know I can defend myself, and I won’t hesitate to do so if I need to,” Imodena assures her. “I’ll take action no matter who it concerns, or how pretty they are.”</p><p>“Ugh, so you <em> do </em>think he’s pretty.”</p><p>“I’m socially inept<em>, dalninil², </em> not blind<em>.</em>”</p><p>Zen grumbles an unintelligible protest to that, but ultimately lets it drop. “I’m not being paranoid and working myself up for no reason, am I? Something <em> is </em>off?”</p><p>“I believe it is.”</p><p>Zenith shifts on her feet, frowning deeply. “He’s ludicrously pale. He eats and drinks less than everyone in camp. He hardly meditates, even by elven reckoning—and he’s always stealing off into the woods at night, when he trusts no one will catch him.”</p><p>“Maybe he’s partial to a good midnight constitutional.”</p><p>“<em>Or </em> he’s a vampire, or some variation thereupon.”</p><p>Imodena nods slowly. “Or he’s a vampire, or some variation thereupon.”</p><p>“And you won’t let any possible mushiness or sympathy hinder you from burning him to a crisp if he tries—I don’t know—serenading you or slobbering on you, right?”</p><p>Clearly, this is not the moment to admit she’s gotten to experience Astarion’s conspicuous lack of body heat firsthand, however crucial that information may be when added to Zenith’s (very plausible) hypothesis.</p><p>“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, if we ever do come to it,” Imodena says instead, with a meaningful squeeze of her hand. “Now, come on—we shouldn’t be gone too long. We’re losing the day.”</p><p>Zenith heaves a sigh, tail drooping. “Oh, well. It was worth a try.”</p><p>“Hope dies last, Zen.”</p><p>“I don’t need you to tell me that!” </p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>The day is cloudless and brilliant.</p><p>Astarion’s in a fair mood, despite the monstrous gaffe involving the boar yesterday—he likely would have sweated his way out of his doublet if he were still capable of <em> that </em>bodily function. Luckily, by grace of his quick tongue, and too many years of practice of keeping his composure in the face of imminent discovery and death, he’d scraped by.</p><p>Though the “I didn’t want to worry you” bit had been rather obtuse and heavy-handed on his part, looking back—Imodena probably understands his habitual apathy for anything extending farther than himself better than anyone else in this menagerie of tadpole-carriers. It’s disconcerting, to say the least: she’s too intuitive for his taste, but he’d be fibbing if he acted as though the danger of her coming close to the truth didn’t thrill him, either. It’s a bit of a race, isn’t it? He has the feeling he’s staying barely a step ahead, skimming just out of her reach. </p><p>If she tried, she wouldn’t be able to prove anything—not conclusively.</p><p>He almost walks straight into Imodena’s back when she stops abruptly in front of him.</p><p>She looks back at them over her shoulder, expression grim. </p><p>“Vermin,” she says in a low voice. “On the roofs.”</p><p>He hears it as she speaks—the creak of goblins standing on badly-thatched, half-burned wood, hunkering behind the rustling boughs of the trees hemming the ruined houses in.</p><p>“They must have sacked the village,” Zenith hisses. Her unnaturally bright eyes are trained straight ahead, staring at the shambling ruins of what used to be the main gate. “They couldn’t catch a drunk bloatfly with that attempt at an ambush.”</p><p>Gale’s chuckle is pure derision. “They could certainly try,” he says.</p><p>A divot appears between Imodena’s white brows. Oh, no. Astarion knows that look. She has a plan.</p><p>“Walk forward, but stay behind me,” Imodena instructs them. “Don’t talk, don’t draw your weapons. I have an idea.”</p><p>Zenith pinches the bridge of her thin nose between two fingers. “This had better not be another one of your hunches, Imo.”</p><p>“Hush, it’ll be fine, even if it’s not. Come on.”</p><p>“There you go again,” Zenith grumbles. “You always say that.” And then she turns to her captive audience, observant Gale, and disinterested Astarion, and adds, “It usually prefaces some cataclysmic disaster or other.”</p><p>“Shh!” Imodena chastises. </p><p>Then she turns around, straightens up to her full height, shoulders back, chin held high, and confidently strides toward the village entrance like she owns the place. From somewhere up high on the bough of an oak, Odin craws a warning.</p><p>Their approach instantly draws attention.</p><p>“Git over there! Surround ‘em, like!” the lead goblin hollers, waving one meaty arm. She’s wearing an atrocious, slapdash arrangement of boiled leathers, feathers, and random scraps of badly-tempered iron, which Astarion presumes are meant to be… some kind of armor. </p><p>“I know you’re there,” Imodena calls out. “Show yourselves.”</p><p>She sounds… commanding. Demanding. Not like herself. </p><p>“You spotted us,” the goblin is saying. “Good. S’like they say…” And then the beady eyes hooded by her helm (which looks to be about a minute and a stiff wind from falling apart) narrow. “Wait. A drow? In the <em> sun</em>?”</p><p>Oh, they’ve got themselves a <em> smart </em> goblin.</p><p>The arm waves again. “Stand down! This one’s got a touch of the Absolute about her.” She shifts into a servile bow, or at least an imitation of one, her head hanging low and her ears drooping. “Apologies, your ladyship. Hard makin’ you out from a distance.”</p><p>“Doddering fool. I should pluck out your eyes,” Imodena says imperiously, ice dripping from every word. Her contempt is palpable, her disdain like poison. “You are clearly not using them.” </p><p>Astarion can’t see her face—from here, he must content himself with just the tumble of white hair around her shoulders, and the imposing, unbroken line of her back. He wishes he had a better vantage point.</p><p>The goblin recoils. “Please, no, Your Worship, ‘twas an honest mistake. Come and go as you wish, o-of course. Your Worship.”</p><p>“See that it does <em> not </em> happen again.”</p><p>Another frantic bow, something like a nod—and then the creature vanishes, her taloned feet clicking on the roof. </p><p>The village entrance is now deathly silent, and nobody makes a peep as Odin flutters down to alight on Imodena’s shoulder. She lifts a palm to stroke along the raven’s head.</p><p>Gale is the one to break the silence. </p><p>“Ever considered a career in theater?” he asks, crossing his arms. “You’d make a fortune.”</p><p>“Too introverted by far,” Imodena says. She turns around at last, but there’s no trace of the venom she just displayed in her expression. She is as soft and pale and nearly-gossamer as ever. In a low, confidential voice, she continues: “My kin are clearly entangled in this mess—and I suspect a Daughter leads the goblin horde, though she must be infected. No true Lolth-sworn would turn on the Dark Mother willingly.”</p><p>Zenith looks as happy to hear that as she is to see Astarion every morning—that is to say, not at all. </p><p>“If that’s true, she will be a threat,” the cleric says. “Goblins and hobgoblins and trolls and  gnolls and bugbears and <em> whatever </em> godsdamned else these wilds have regurgitated are one thing—but a drow noble is another entirely, tadpole or no tadpole. We must be cautious, and arouse no suspicion.” </p><p>She scarcely took a breath throughout the duration of that tirade. Was it too much to hope she would pass out by its conclusion?</p><p>“While this whole situation sounds <em> extremely </em> serious,” Astarion cuts in, looking at Imodena, “I’m more shocked that you’re such a little liar, my dear. You are full of surprises.”</p><p>Imodena smiles at him serenely—he can’t tell if she’s pleased or not. “It’s part of my charm.”</p><p>“You’ll be okay, right?” Zenith says, stepping forward to shove herself like a wedge between them. “I know you haven’t done—<em>it </em> in a while.”</p><p>Astarion glares at the back of her head, wondering if the worm has granted him the gift of pyretic sight in the last fifteen minutes. She is obviously asking questions that make sense to nobody else in order to remind the plebians (read: him, him, him—and Gale, he supposes) that she and Imodena share a history no one else does, and it makes him want to bite her for her impertinence; she’s as territorial as he is—he can read her like an open book. </p><p>He does so detest competition.</p><p>“Don’t worry about me, Zen,” Imodena replies. She’s scratching Odin under the chin now, and the raven has shut his eyes in bliss. “I can act like a proper drow for a very long time, especially if it will get us into that camp of theirs.”</p><p>“I’m sure she’s cognizant of her limits,” Astarion says, making certain to use the most cloying tone of voice he has in his arsenal.</p><p>Zenith gives him a scornful onceover. “Yes, Astarion. She <em> is.</em>”</p><p>Gale coughs into his fist. He does that a lot around them.</p><p>“I appreciate the overflow of concern,” Imodena interjects neatly. “Now, with my health duly inspected, I urge us onward.”</p><p>The raven squawks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh.</p><p> </p><p>•─────⋅☾ ☽⋅─────•</p><p> </p><p>For an hour before the camp truly quiets, Imodena and Zenith sit on their bedrolls near the fire, locked in deep conversation. </p><p>Shadowheart eavesdrops with her customary disregard for caring who can tell; Wyll doesn’t care—he’s dozed off in his seat, arms crossed and head pillowed on a bunched-up cloak; Lae’zel continues to spurn their very existence, staying in her corner, nursing a large pint of something or other; Gale participates in the discussion for a few minutes before retiring to his own pile of blankets to read; and Astarion is so paralyzingly, horrendously thirsty that he’s sure the fixed cadence of Imodena’s heart is mocking him, solely, because it’s all he can hear—all he has been <em> able </em> to hear since... some time today.</p><p>Or was it yesterday? Or the day before that?</p><p>She’s not the one he expected to be giving him trouble: Wyll is right there, the epitome of every noble-hearted (and noble-bred) soul he’s been hunting and luring for the last two hundred years, righteous and confident and strong, fairly oozing with tempting internal conflict. In fact, just a week ago, Wyll’s proximity would have made Astarion drool. It’s not that the feeling has vanished, either. He’s still hungry, of course—it’s just eclipsed by this inexplicable <em> want</em>. He doesn’t <em> want </em> anyone else, not nearly as bad.</p><p>He’s no stranger to attraction. But that word alone doesn’t seem right anymore. It’s verging upon a fixation. And fixations can be deadly. </p><p>Shadowheart has the first shift on guard duty—she moves to take up her place, shield leaned on her knees, and he hears Imodena wish her a good night. The pleasantry is returned. </p><p>Minutes pass. Perhaps it's hours. He wouldn’t be able to tell, honestly. Shadowheart leaves, replaced by Wyll, who is then replaced by Lae’zel. </p><p>Soon it is Gale’s turn—and then Astarion’s. </p><p>The ravenous pit in his stomach—which seems to be expanding rather than becoming bearable—gnaws away at his patience, until he’s reduced to pacing the perimeter of the camp restlessly. </p><p>His eyes keep straying back to the bedrolls around the fire. </p><p>Zenith is curled in a tight ball, legs drawn up to her chest, hands clasped as though in prayer; she’s a deep sleeper, as he’s come to learn, and walking past her would pose no issue. </p><p>A stone’s throw away is Imodena, laid on her back among a nest of furs—to the unlearned, she would look to be asleep (or dead), but drow, like all elves, do not rest in the way others do. She sometimes meditates in inadvisable places—at the edge of camp, too near to some animal in the grove—insisting she likes the drone of nature, that it helps her with her exercises. No such luck tonight.</p><p>He’s still planning how to go about it when he realizes he’s already crouched down beside her, his shadow darkening her face and body. He’d moved without conscious thought, drawn in by the siren song of her pulse. </p><p>For a moment, he only looks. </p><p>She’s much less intense when in repose, with her clever eyes hidden from view. Her hair is like a snow-white wreath; a cluster of its strands move with her every measured breath—that gentle action, the rise and fall of her chest, is the most hypnotic thing he’s ever seen. She’s a collection of sylphlike lines and connections, lean and delicate. Breakable. Beauty animated by intelligence. </p><p>At this distance, he can pick up on the scent of her skin: a fraction sweet, a fraction astringent, like a fruit with bite to it. His mouth waters. </p><p>Her heartbeat is regular, undisturbed, and he could leave it that way. He wouldn’t harm her. It would only be a small drink—enough to clear his head. Enough to dispel this cursed curiosity. Enough to have a memory of not having fed like a beast, at least once.</p><p>Astarion brushes her hair aside with a featherlight sweep of his knuckles. She is <em> warm</em>. If he took her to bed, would that warmth cling to him, too?</p><p>His lips are about to touch her neck—and then piercing pain erupts at the back of his skull, making him cry out. </p><p>Something heavy is upon him, clawing at his face, shrieking like a banshee, and he is stumbling back on his feet, beating away the menace with his arms. His wrist makes contact with his assailant—feathers. Hells’ teeth, the raven, the <em> raven. </em> How could he have forgotten? Has he lost his mind?</p><p>“Odin! Stop! Odin, back!” </p><p>Her voice freezes him in his place. </p><p>The raven wheels away from him, fluttering back to its master with a vengeance. Around them, the camp is coming to life. Weapons are drawn, bedrolls abandoned.</p><p>She remains seated, her familiar hunched protectively on her knee, but she is alert—and he sees the complete understanding of what just happened in her gaze.</p><p><em> Lie</em>, his mind hisses at him. <em> Justify. Run. Sweet-talk her! Do something! </em></p><p>He musters one word.</p><p>“Shit.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>¹ abbil, (n): undercommon for 'friend.'<br/>² dalninil, (n): undercommon for 'sister.'</p></blockquote></div></div>
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